


watch the light blink

by okayantigone



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy Issues, Faisal al Fakeeh, Gen, Heart Attacks, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Abuse, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, berlin station - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: Tony Stark has a heart attack in the middle of the Barnes fiasco at the UN, and it's all Thaddeus Ross can do not to tear his hair out, because the last thing he needs on his plate is to get slapped with a lawsuit from Pepper Potts for shouting Iron Man into fatal heart failure.He visits Stark in the hospital singularily and only because he wants to make sure that it doesn't happen. He doesn't mean to sympathize with Stark over the shared knowledge of the pure, brain-stopping terror of feeling your heart just not work anymore. God he's tired.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yes this is Thaddeus Ross/Tony Stark, moderate speed burn  
> 2\. Let's be real, Tony is probably historically been more of a Republican, but I also think he's one of those people who supports "the better candidate" in any case.   
> 3\. He looks so sad in Civil War, I wanted to fix it.   
> 4\. None of the tags about rape and abuse pertain to Tony's relationship with Ross.

When he steps into the room, the first thing that catches his eye is the blood splattered on the collar of Stark’s white silk shirt. Stark looks like a civilian who just went a few rounds with a supersoldier, which is pretty much what he is. The bruise on the side of his face is turning interesting colors, and there’s dry blood at the corners of his mouth.

 

Thaddeus Ross is used to dealing with Stark. The man is a menace to handle on a good day, and he’s still _pissed_ about his favorite bar getting deconstructed (although he may have had that one coming for being an obnoxious jerk himself). Still with the fall of SHIELD and half the government turning out to be HYDRA agents, and the other half just being plainclothes neo-nazis, he and Stark had had to band together.

 

The fallout of Ultron wasn’t pretty. The Accords were as middle as middle-ground got, and now Stark looked exhausted, and the least put-together Ross had seen him. He was always in his nice three piece suits, perfectly pressed, not a hair out of place, the dark circles under his eyes hidden behind his red tinted sunglasses. Now his vest is undone, and his shirt is unbuttoned, and he can see the tops of the ridged scars from the heart surgery that had revolutionized use of Extremis in the medical field, his nice silk tie crumpled on the table and Ross is pretty sure Stark used it to clean up the blood on his face, because he could afford to use a two hundred dollar tie as a glorified kneelex (and didn’t that just rankle – he was the goddamn Secretary of State, and some uppity tech nerd could afford to buy him ten times over. At least unlike those up-and-comers from Silicon Valley Stark actually knew how to play the game. Ross would have felt different if he had to face off a twenty-something in a man bun).   
  
The Black Widow – and that rankles too – since when do we let former KGB agents dismantle home intelligence organizations – nazi emergencies be damned – and walk away scot-free? She’s studying him, and her face is open and pleasant, but he feels unsettled all the same. He’s really, really pleased she’s on their side in all this, her signature on the documents giving him just a small amount of satisfaction that he’s done what the Russians couldn’t, and brought in a Black Widow ( _the_ Black Widow, unless Belova breaks retirement) to some semblance of loyalty.

 

Rhodes is not there, which he definitely feels some type of way about, because Rhodes is the only man who knows how to translate Stark into English, and vice versa, and because – and he hates to admit it – Stark doesn’t like him, or trust him, and he doesn’t like or trust the military very much. Maybe he should have sent in the Other Ross. That’s what everyone calls them these days – the Rosses. Him – the original one, by virtue of being older, and the Other Ross, who’s hiding depths of nastiness that only serving in backwater blacksites for most of your CIA career gives you, and frankly the last person with that kind of dossier Thaddeus had to work with – well. The lesser said about Hector Dejean, the better. He’s probably fucked off somewhere with his Saudi whore, and that’s in everyone’s best interest.

 

Thaddeus is a miliaty man. He does not like government spooks, inasmuch as he appreciates their necessity, even more so now that he’s Secretary of State.

 

Well. That still doesn’t make his current job easier, which is to bring Stark to heel, and impose on him the importance of getting Rogers, Barnes and Wilson taken in. Swiftly. He hopes he doesn’t have to yell. Stark looks like he’ll keep over if someone yells at him right now, though he’s putting on a brave face.

 

“I don’t suppose you have any idea where they are,” he begins carefully, because there’s still a chance they might get this resolved swiftly and without further need to expose his and Other Ross’ men to the bone-crunching force that is cornered supersoldiers (yes, okay, working with Blonsky and Banner was a fucking fiasco. if he has to deal with another enhanced military individual again, it will be too soon. Unfortunately, he has to deal with them. Consistently.)

 

“We will,” Stark says assuredly. He isn’t exactly limping as he moves around the room, but he’s favoring his side, and leaning heavily to the left. His gestures are more contained, like he can’t bear to spread his arms very far. And he isn’t smiling. Ross was used to Stark always being smug and smiling. He rattles on the security measures he’s implemented, the surveillance that should let them know if Rogers, or Wilson or Barnes so much as blink, but Thaddeus only interrupts him at the end of it all -   
  
“It’s not yours to handle.” What he means is “You’re an active duty non-combatant, who already almost got shot,” what he means is “let the professionals do their job,” what he means is “your hero worshippy crush on Rogers is going to compromise this whole thing”, but he can’t find a nice enough way of phrasing it, and pissing off Stark right around elections is not a good idea. Ellis really needs those old money Republicans with new money liberal values to open up their big fat wallets and follow Tony’s lead into supporting him for reelection, and Ross can’t afford to fuck that up if he wants to continue being Secretary of State – he’s way too staunchly Republican and conservative to ever get by in a Democrat government, and he’s not nearly likeable and personable enough in close quarters – Ellis likes him well-enough, sure, but more to the point – Ellis trusts him to do his job. The next guy might not.

 

Romanova’s quip about shooting Captain America – well. It’s a low blow, but frankly, right now for all the work he’s opening up for them, Ross would happily shoot Captain America and Captain Red October both, blame it on HYDRA, and then call it a day, and save everyone a lot of headaches. It’s efficient that way. But that’s just wishful thinking, and Romanova and Stark both consider Rogers a friend. Allegedly.

 

He appeals to Stark’s guilt complex, because he really, really just wants him out of this. It’s a political mess that doesn’t need to turn into an ugly breakup sequence. Still, it won’t look very good to have Captain America brought in in fucking chains – the left wingers would have a hay day talking their heads off about the corrupt republican government. Fuck.

 

36 hours is the most he can really afford to give Stark. They can’t really afford to have rogue supersoldiers out and about for longer and Wilson – technically a deserter now, and armed with Stark tech that in the wrong hands –

 

He’s getting a headache just thinking about it. And that’s not even considering how to spin this whole thing for the media circuit, and that vulture Christine Everhart hates Stark only marginally less than she hates him, and she’s eager to sink her pretty teeth into a juicy story about shadowy government agencies. Why must she have a brain to match her cute little face?  Maybe they can appeal to Tommy, get her to do a cute little segment on Stark, Rogers and wholesome American values of compromise and friendship. It’s not even his _job_ to be thinking about any of this.

 

He storms out of the glass-walled office to talk to Other Ross about damages, and containment and find out what the _fuck_ happened with the psychiatrist they got for Barnes.

 

Tony rubs absently at his chest. His head is pounding and he can’t really feel the side of his face. He asked for an ice pack, but that was ages ago, and he never saw the same assistant again, so probably that’s a no go. He slants a look at Nat, but right now eye contact isn’t on the list of things he can manage. He barely could force himself to look at Thaddeus Ross’ face long enough to even pretend he was a normal functioning human being.

 

And now that the general is gone, he lets his shoulders slump, rubbing absent-mindedly at the scars that litter his chest. He can never tell if the pain in the general vicinity of his artificial sternum is real or imagined, and all his pills are in his hotel room. He was going to have a good day. He’d thought he was going to have a good day. Steve would sign, they’d get Barnes acquainted with the wonders of modern therapy, the team would mingle, go to a fancy dinner to commemorate the whole thing, and then end up in a greasy kebab place at 3 am. Clearly, none of that is happening now, and he’s so tired there’s spots swimming in his vision, and he’s pretty sure the impact of that bullet he caught fractured something in his arm, and god – the look in Barnes’ eyes when he tried to blow his head clean off – there’s some new nightmare fuel. Thank god Pepper’s not around anymore for him to wake with his screaming.

 

“My … left arm feels kinda numb,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything, he’s even more conscious of talking around Nat now, after her consistent jabs about his hyperverbal tendencies. Don’t annoy the spy that already stabbed you in the neck once, Tony. “Is that normal?”

 

He hadn’t really meant to say it, because he’d be damned before he showed any weakness in front of Nat. It’s not that he didn’t like her – he loved Nat! She was great to chat with – when she wasn’t subtly and not-so-subtly taking blows at his intelligence and relatively stunted closed-quarters social skills, and she was nice to look at, and she was really, really good at her job – so good at her job that he would literally rather swallow one of his old reactors than let her know he was feeling less-than-stellar beyond the fun new purple adornment on his face.

 

“You alright?” she places a hand on his shoulder and it’s all he can do not to flinch from it. Her hand is warm and small, and he lets himself lean into the touch just as she removes it.

 

“Always,” he says through gritted teeth because he can’t breathe, his fingers digging into his chest still, hoping the real pain of his nails raking over the scar tissue will distract him from what is probably psychosomatic and –

 

“Tony!” Natasha doesn’t scream. She’s a damn spy, a red room trained operative, and so she doesn’t scream. She just exclaims his name very loudly when she feels, rather than sees him crumpling down.

 

 _Left arm feeling numb -_  
  
She shoves the glass door open. “Stark’s having a heart attack! Call an ambulance!”

 

Okay. This she does shout. Because she needs to get people’s attention. She catches Ross whipping around and changing his trajectory sharply from where he was about to take a turn down the hall, but she needs to return to Tony. She pushes him on his back. His mouth is open, but he’s not exactly breathing. She may or may not have ripped his shirt open, trying to get access to his chest to begin compressions. It’s fine, he’ll buy another one. Tom Ford, huh? He’d been more of a Boss guy when she first met him.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medium burn means it's chapter two but they technically kissed!

He maintains that he didn’t do anything more than anyone else would have done in his situation. Following the sound of the Widow’s shout, he’d rushed back into the office room, where Stark had collapsed on the floor. Widow was frantically making compressions on his chest, but her movements were stilted and awkward, as though she was afraid to break him. The mess of scars in his dark skin was fascinating, but he didn’t really have time for that. He could make out the sound of her counting frantically under her breath in Russian. 

Stark’s skin was pale and clammy. He and Romanova didn’t really need words. He put his mouth to Stark’s and breathed. And then counted the chest compressions with her. And he breathed again. And he wondered when the hell the paramedics would deign to show the fuck up and tend to Stark. It would be so, so unfortunate to have the biggest name in clean energy, and a true visionary of American industry die in his arms, and Potts would sue him to his dying breath. If Banner and the Hulk didn’t collectively decide to squash him. It really was unfortunate that Stark was so damn popular these days. 

He tries not to think of the memories of his own heart attack when the doctors finally get in the room. Romanov follows with them, presumably to go into the ambulance with Stark, but he doesn’t really have the energy for anything beyond sitting on the comfy gray carpet, and leaning against the glass panels that wall the office, counting his own breaths, and reassuring himself that his heart beats just fine, thank you. It better do, with how much he paid through the nose for the triple bypass. 

It's how Other Ross finds him, and he nails the art of looking both peeved, and very apologetic, telling him he’s needed to give an official statement on the US side of the Barnes fiasco, and also, who is going to retrieve said fugitive, since His Majesty the king of Wakanda has just gotten extradiction. 

The headaches don’t stop until late in the evening, and by the time he makes his way to the hotel, all he wants is a stiff drink, and to not have to hear the name James Barnes ever again in his life. He pauses in the lobby briefly, to look up at the tv showing the news on mute. If Stark kicked the bucket, it would be all over the screens, but it’s not. There’s just a brief line of reporting that he was rushed to the hospital in a non-Avengers capacity, and even a helpful addendum of how fans can leave cards and flowers with the hospital staff for Dr. Stark to look at when he’s better. 

Only European media affords Stark the honor of mentioning his multiple PhDs. He’d always assumed that it was Stark’s own preference, with his obvious dislike for pomp and ceremony – Thaddeus would not have stood for it. He made his way to General with hard work, and the idea that it might be disregarded was something he couldn’t abide. 

He tosses his suit jacket on the floor and loosens his tie, and practically collapses on the mattress. He makes up his mind to go to the hospital and make sure Stark doesn’t sue him. Yelling Iron Man into a heart attack is surely grounds for dismissal from his position, and with the way the government’s headed, he won’t be surprised if Ellis appoints the big man himself to his job after giving him the boot. It’s nightmare fuel, and he sleeps poorly, dreaming of a Hulk-sized White House chasing him into the Potomac as the Triskelion collapses on top of him. 

His mood doesn’t improve with breakfast, when there’s still no news from Rhodes about the fugitives he was sent to apprehend, and he refreshes his email while eating the scrambled eggs from the hotel buffet, and sipping his coffee black. 

Yes, giving sugar up was probably good for his heart, but no he wasn’t damn well going to be happy about it. 

His car pulls up to the curb, and he pretends like he doesn’t hate the idea of anymore secret government agencies carting him around, but in the fallout of SHIELD something had to be done with their agents that were definitely and for sure not HYDRA (they had wanted to remove the agents that were definitely and for sure not Nazis, but really, that would leave most of the current administration to a skeleton crew. One political atrocity at a time), and Langley was more than happy to co-opt them in a semi-independent division that dealt exclusively with superhuman-type situations. One enhanced criminal at a time, and all that. 

He gave directions to the hospital. He debated internally getting Stark something from the giftshop, if only as a show of goodwill. Stark had been cooperative so far – the only one who’d actually listened and collaborated with the government, even before joining up with the superpowered circus, and personal dislike aside, Thaddeus could appreciate a patriot, and a supporter of the army. 

He dismisses the idea, if only because Stark is not his goddamn girlfriend, and if anything, he probably won’t appreciate flowers or a card. From his fans, especially the children, they’re probably charming. From him, it would just seem disingenuous. 

He states his name and rank for the nurse at the desk, and makes his way up the stairs to the private ward. He can tell which room is Stark’s by the fact that there’s one (1) Black Widow guarding it, and one (1) CEO of an international multi-billion-dollar corporation glaring him down as he approaches.   
Pepper Potts is the kind of woman who would have made waves in the military. She radiates the kind of power and no-nonsense attitude that is hard to come by, and that he can certainly appreciate, even if her liberal, left-leaning ways have been guiding Stark away from the light the last few years. 

“Miss Potts,” he says, going for friendly but ending up neutral, because he’s just so fucking tired. 

“General,” she says in a tone that mimicks his. 

“Will… Doctor Stark be okay?” He figres he might butter her up by buttering Stark up. 

“He’s in no condition to go another round with a supersoldier, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Potts says sharply. Jesus. Is that why she thinks he’s here. He’s not heartless, as his cardiologist is fond of reminding him. 

“I know that,” he says, maybe a little more stern that he should have. “I was checking up on the health of Tony Stark, not Iron Man.” 

Potts doesn’t seem assuaged, but her stance turns less hostile. 

“He’ll be fine,” she says, but there’s something in the tone of her voice that indicates there’s a “but” somewhere along the lines of imminent heart surgery in the next few days to weeks. He knows the tone of voice plenty. 

“Natasha said you were there yesterday,” she adds. It’s deliberately phrased. 

Romanov perks up at the mention of her own name. She shifts her stance, and fixes him a passive stare. 

“Yes,” he says flatly, prompting her to continue speaking and get to the point. 

“Are you here to make sure I don’t sue you for giving Tony a heart attack?” 

Is he really that obvious? Well. Maybe in Washington honesty isn’t the best policy, but he’s pretty sure Romanova knows at least two good body dumping sites in the vicinity if he pisses either of them off, and he’s tired of games anyhow. 

“Yes.”

Potts gives him a thin sardonic smile. “I won’t.” she promises. 

He returns the smile with one of his own. There was a time where he’d been considered a charming and gregarious man – it’s what made his marriage work, at the start, and his wife always said Betty got her humor from him. He wonders at which exactly point in his life he lost that. 

“You can go in and see him,” Potts says. “He was asking for Ste – Rogers when he woke up.” 

Him and Thaddeus both. 

He makes his way into the room. Stark looks dwarfed by the hospital bed and the machinery. He is not a very tall man at all, but he carries himself like he’s Hulk-sized all the same, and he is, in fact awake. 

He looks sluggish and exhausted, and worse and more pathetic than he did after his fun boxing match with the Winter Soldier. He makes a feeble attempt at standing up. 

“My thirty-six hours aren’t up yet, I’ll be ready to get in the suit this afternoon, I can still – “ 

He attempts to sound in control, commanding and imposing as he used to, but Thaddeus knows panicked rambling when he hears it. He raises his hand. 

“Jesus, Stark, I’m not here to yell at you. Colonel Rhodes, half the Wakandan royal guard, and Everett Ross’ task force have been dispatched to apprehend Rogers. I told you it’s not yours to deal with.” 

It doesn’t do the trick. Instead, Stark looks striken and even more panic, the machine beside him beeping dangerously. 

“Rhodey bear?” 

DADT was repealed, Thaddeus reminds himself at the nickname. He’d always thought it was a particular stupid thing anyhow. 

“Give me your phone,” Stark says, and there’s something urgent in his voice, pleading in a way Thaddeus recognizes, because it makes its way in his voice every time he begs Betty’s voicemail to call him back just once. 

He hands the most dangerous hacker in the world his phone without a question, and watches Stark’s eyebrows knit in a frown as he taps away. 

“Why do you use a Samsung,” Stark asks incredulous, disgust thick in his voice, but it seems to be working for his purposes, because he doesn’t give it back. Truthfully, he hadn’t really cared for the brand of the phone. It put his calls through, and he could answer emails on it. 

He doesn’t try to defend his use of technology. He’s not that much older than Stark, he doesn’t think, but he feels damn hear ancient, being scolded about the kind of phone he uses. He isn’t sure he even wants to know how Stark would have reacted if he’d known he used a flip phone prior to his appointment. And anyone could figure out his computer password was Betty’s birthday, but he couldn’t bear to change it. 

Stark’s frown is disconcerting though. Thaddeus has an inkling of what he’s trying to do – the man built the damn War Machine/Iron Patriot armour, getting into it is probably a child’s game to him. Stark looks up, and for the first time there is open and naked fear in his eyes. 

“It’s very nice of you to visit, Mr. Secretary,” he says, and his voice is shaking. He hands back the phone. “But you need to make your way back. Right now. I can’t make contact with the War Machine armor,” and even this – the free admission to an action that could have easily gotten him jailed, if Thaddeus was feeling particularly peeved, and the fact that he had a heart attack just yesterday – 

He snatches his phone out of Stark’s hand. “I’ll handle it,” he promises. 

Stark looks like a child. “Bring my Rhodey back to me,” he pleads. Anything he’d said in that tone of voice, he would probably have gotten. This time, their goals align. It seems to happen more and more lately. It’s either a sign that he’s mellowing, or that Stark’s growing up. 

“I’m glad I didn’t shout you into a heart attack,” he says instead, because that used to be something he was good at, making jokes out of serious things, making people smile when they were stressed. Stark does crack a smile. 

“You didn’t,” he confirms. “You didn’t even raise your voice at me.” 

“Tell that to your CEO when she sues me,” he calls over his shoulder, already on his way downstairs to find out what the hell happened to Rhodes’ armor.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing about distasters is, there’s a distinct domino effect. When one thing goes wrong, every subsequent thing follows it and goes wrong after. Colonel James Rhodes may never walk again, and Thaddeus isn’t anywhere near stupid or naïve enough to believe that Stark will allow anyone else to use the Iron Patriot armor. War Machine had been a much better name in his opinion, but political correctness really had gone mad these last few years.

 

He strides to Stark’s floor. It’s his responsibility to tell the man. He signed off on the mission, after all. He knows both Stark and Rhodes. He owes them that much.

 

Stark is sat up in bed, absent-mindedly dipping carrots in a pot of hummus and typing on his tablet one-handed. The color’s back in his face. He looks better.

 

Thaddeus knocks on the door frame before letting himself in. Stark looks up expectantly. His face is creased with worry lines that hadn’t been there even two-three years ago. What has this life done to you, Thaddeus wants to ask.

 

“Steve Rogers and James Barnes have left the country,” he says carefully, his voice heavy. “Barnes is operating in diminished capacity. That’s how we’ll sell it. But Rogers… is officially being treated as a deserter from the US military.”

 

Stark’s eyes are hollow and hard. “You want to court martial Captain America, and give the shield to Barnes?”

 

“We’ll need some PR gymnastics to spin it,” Thaddeus allows. Stark looks like he’s aged ten years in the last two minutes.

 

“There’s more,” he says. He wishes he could just rip the bandaid off.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Stark says, and the dramatics are only half-faked. “Please no more.”

 

“Your friend, Colonel Rhodes … is in critical condition. He’s in surgery right now. You may visit him after.”

 

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Stark’s looking up at him like he’s just been slapped. There’s so much naked open heartbreak on his face that is makes Thaddeus want to turn away. This isn’t for him to see.

 

“How,” Stark manages, and his voice dies in his throat.

 

“It’s better if you view the footage,” Thaddeus says. He’s not above indirectly endorsing some hacking. “Leipzig Airport, the parking lot between Hangars 4b and 5f.”

 

Stark nods numbly, moving his fingers over the tablet.

 

“Do you want me to – “ He isn’t sure if he should leave or stay. Isn’t sure if seeing this will drive Stark into another cardiac arrest.

 

He’s seen men die. But something about watching Rhodes tumble down in a dead metal suit while Wilson tries to push the Falcon wings to their maximum capacity and _still_ fails to save him… It’s gruesome.

 

Wilson had walked into the waiting hands of police with death in his eyes.

 

“No,” Stark says finally, after forever. “Stay.”

 

He stays at the door, stock still, and listens to the sounds he already knows. Watches Stark carefully as his face slowly shutters off.

 

He clenches and unclenches his left fist uselessly, and when he finally looks up something in his soul has gone entirely still. Thaddeus has seen the eyes of killers before. In that moment, Stark is one too. If Thaddeus doesn’t deliver him justice, Stark will get it his own goddamn self. Yet again, he is thankful that the billionaire has been ambivalently off the supervillain path those last few years.

 

“Where are they?” he grinds out. His knuckles are white.

 

“Maximoff, Wilson, Barton and Lang are currently being held in Blacksite. Romanoff’s up in the wind. His Majesty King T’challa gave his statement, and is currently back in his residence. Romanoff attacked him.”

 

“Jesus. She attacked foreign _royalty?”_

 

“Tell me about it. Thank God Wakanda doesn’t have the resources to take us to war.”

 

Stark just shakes his head.

 

“This wouldn’t have happened if I was there.” he says quietly.

 

“You were recovering from a _heart attack.”_

_“_ I would have handled it.”

 

“No. You wouldn’t have.”

 

“You don’t know me like that.”

 

“Stark, be real here,” he snaps. “You’re pushing fifty, and you have a dangerous heart condition, and what I’m told is a frankly crippling case of PTSD  - exactly how much do you think you’d have been able to do?”   
  
“I would have caught him,” Stark whispers, and his voice is broken in ways he’d never sounded broken before. Not after Afghanistan – and Thaddeus had watched all the interviews and press conferences looking for a chink in his armour, and not after the Chitauri invasion, and not after Ultron, when he walked into that senate hearing, completely alone, still covered in bruises, and said calmly, flatly, that he’d made Ultron, his voice defeated and rehearsed before he announced his retirement from the Avengers.

 

They’d kept the hearing closed – they didn’t need another media circus, and he’d behaved himself, and he’d looked tired, but he hadn’t sounded so _broken._

“Maybe.” Thaddeus allows. “Or maybe he would have fallen anyway.”

 

“I want to catch them,” Stark’s voice is carefully controlled, but beneath it is anger. Not for the first time, Thaddeus is reminded of the casual friendly smile on Stark’s face when he’d bought up his favorite watering hole. Just because Thaddeus had annoyed him _once._ Stark was a man who believed in petty revenge. It might have been his favorite American value, right up there with freedom and cheeseburgers.

 

“I can authorize it,” Thaddeus says. “What do you need?”

 

And the smile Stark gives him is feral, and entirely unhappy.

 

“I need authorization to get on the RAFT. I need two SWAT teams on standby. I need you to prepare to smooth over my entrance into foreign airspace. Oh, and that’s not related, but I need you to get back on the case of Bruce Banner vs The World.”

 

“Want me to buy you a small middle Eastern country while I’m at it?” Thaddeus snaps, already on his phone.

 

“That’s very romantic, but I’m not in the mood for a holiday,” Stark says absent-mindedly. “I’m going to get myself discharged now. I’ll call you when I’ve made progress.”

 

“I’ll look forward to it.” Thaddeus leaves the room and walks down the hall, looking through his phone for Other Ross’ number so they can coordinate. He doesn’t notice the hijabi woman carrying a large flower arrangement step out of the elevator and walk towards Stark’s room.

 

Tony pulls the Armani Pepper left him out of the garment bag, while the nice nurse goes through his release paperwork. It’s another three piece, two-button, but this is an Italian cut, and it fits better in the armor. The tie is a dark red silk, and it feels pleasantly soft in his hands. He runs his fingers through his hair in the mirror, appraising himself. He catches the edge of her reflection.

 

“Hello Natashalie.”

 

Her tell-tale red hair is hidden under a headscarf, and she’s covering her face with a pretty arrangement of hydrangeas, but Tony’s dealt with her for far too long to be fooled.

 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” she says, carefully. “He wasn’t going to stop.”

 

“It only took me being laid out flat on a hospital bed for you to turn back to backstabbing, didn’t it?” he asks quietly. He’s so furious he is shaking.

 

“Oh, let go of your ego, Stark. I’m not the one who needs to watch her back.”

 

It’s a low blow. She probably knows what happened to Rhodey. She was there, and she saw, and she _let Steve go._

 

“No,” Tony agrees smoothly. “You’re not.”

 

She’s so far down on his list of priorities right now, it would probably be a blow to _her ego_ if she knew.

 

“He isn’t going to stop,” she repeats.

 

“Oh,” Tony says. He’s just finished knotting a mean double Windsor and the red silk flows between his fingers like blood. “He is. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Whatever Natasha sees in his eyes, she steps out of his way when he walks out the door straightening out the cuffs of his shirt.  

 

He feels better than he has in weeks – the doped him up with the good stuff, so he actually managed to sleep the last three days, and he’s furious, and he’s ready.

 

Steve can spit in the face of all the governments in the world. It’s not Tony’s problem. But Steve’s orders brought Rhodey down. And it would be a very nasty blow to Tony’s reputation if he let that go unpunished. And unlike Steve, Tony has the full support of the US government behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not really feeling this chapter, idk?   
> im struggling with the siberia scene, so i figured a shorter update now will be better.

Tony makes his way on the RAFT slowly, but with purpose. His stay in hospital has been useful in that he feels the most rested he’s been in months, and the headache that had dominated the let half of his brain for the last three weeks is gone. 

He feels only mostly ready to face the part of the Avengers that had decided to stick both middle fingers up to the UN, and to Tony himself personally. He steps off the helicopter, and Ross is already there, offering him a hand. Tony takes it without thinking. He can use all the allies he can get right now. 

“Do we have satellites sweeping, and facial recognition activated for this Zemo guy?” 

“If he so much as breathes, we’ll be the first to know.” Ross reassures. “Thank you, Dr. Stark, for the generous permission to use your technology in this search.” 

Tony cracks a smile at that. It’s only halfway genuine. “I’ve been neglecting my duty as a patriot,” he says, “By failing to provide the government with the best possible equipment to spy on its citizens.” 

Ross shakes his head, quirking a smile of his own. “Come on, Stark. You know I’m not allowed to say anything in response.” 

They walk into the control room together, shoulder by shoulder, and Tony can almost forget that there’s a reason he’s here. Those are his friends in those cells. Well. His friends and Wanda. His friends, and Wanda, and Steve’s friend Sam. His friends, and Wanda, and Steve’s friend Sam, and Pym’s pet project. So really, his friend Clint, Wanda, Steve’s friend Sam, and Pym’s pet project. 

It occurs to him for the first time that … he doesn’t actually owe any of these people anything. For all intents and purposes, the RAFT is where they should be as dangerous enhanced individuals acting out of jurisdiction and with stolen equipment, and more to the point they had gone against Rhodey, and now Rhodey would probably never walk again. 

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ross looks at him for a moment, appraising and careful, before speaking:

“You know you don’t have to dally. Go in, get a pin on Barnes and Rogers, get out.” 

Tony wants to roll his eyes, but… it actually feels nice, for once, that someone is putting him into consideration, even if that someone is Thaddeus Ross. Which, come think of it, why did Tony hate the guy again? 

He squares his shoulders and walks towards the cluster of cells. He does his best to look amiable and harmless, rather than scorchingly furious. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Rhodey hooked to the ventilator currently doing his breathing for him. 

He stands in the middle, his back to the door he came in from, and looks at each of them. 

“What the hell happened, guys?” he asks finally. He means for it to come out light, but something bleeds in his voice – some parts anger, some parts desperation. These peope are – were. These people were heroes. They were heroes, and they were meant to save people and uphold the law. Not – not try to beat the shit out of Rhodey and King T’Challa and – 

The silence takes too long for him, and patience is not something he has in spades these days. “Well?” he demands, stalking farther into the room, spreading his arms out. He recognizes blearily that he’s copying the same body language Obie used when he’d walk into a board meeting in a quarter when the numbers were displeasing him. 

“How about where the hell were you, Stark?” Clint snaps, and his voice is so vitriolic it feels like a physical slap in the face. “Can’t face the people you made into criminals, so you send our friends to arrest us instead?”

“I had a heart attack,” Tony replies, equally as venomous, “And I was in the hospital.” 

He tries not to focus on the fact that Clint had excluded him from the people referred to as “friends”, that he’d reverted to calling him “Stark” rather than Tony. 

Clint’s face crumpled. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says quietly. “Oh.” 

“Nat didn’t say – “ Clint manages.

“Had time for a chat with her, did you? While beating the shit out of your friends?” Tony snarls venomously.

He could say more, but he’s not in the mood to be chatting to any of them. He casts a furtive look at Wanda. There’s no red mist in her eyes. She looks calm, and she says nothing. He wonders if finally getting a taste of consequences has knocked the attitude out of her, but it’s too much to hope for. He zeroes in on Sam Wilson instead. 

Sam Wilson is not his friend. He’s Steve’s friend. The only thing he and Tony have in common is that Tony is Steve’s friend too. 

“I need to know where they are, Sam,” he says carefully. He’s not looking him in the eye, because eye contact is the last thing he wants to attempt right now, because he is so goddamn angry, and Sam can’t know. “There’s a whole lot of shit going down, and – I have to help them. I know Barnes was framed, I know – please let me help them.” 

Because god knows none of you know how to do anything to help yourselves, he thinks, but doesn’t. 

“You have to go alone, and as a friend,” Wilson says, as though Tony is some kind of idiot who will willingly go after two supersoldiers on his own. 

“Of course,” he says, nodding rapidly. “Of course.” Just tell me where the hell they are. 

Wilson tells him. Ross isn’t very popular with the Russian government right now, but Tony’s in talks with two steel exporters right now to source raw materials from them, so it evens out nicely. He’ll be cleared to enter Russian airspace. 

“Is Rhodes – “ Wilson begins, and falters. 

Tony’s not feeling particularly charitable, so he meets Wilson’s gaze head on, and says, in his most heartbroken voice, “I honestly don’t know.” 

Let them mull over that one. They always accuse him of being a killer with no remorse, but Rhodey, in that hospital bed… Well. His own conscience has always been clear. 

He strides out of the room and towards the helicopter. 

“Stark,” Ross calls out. “I don’t need to tell you this, but i will say it anyway: don’t shoot to kill.”

Tony turns around to face him fully. 

“Is that an order, Mr. Secretary?” 

“Yes,” Ross says, voice hard. “It is. I’ll have a team on standby when you give the all clear.” 

Tony nods and climbs into the chopper.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Siberia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is super short, because i really struggled with the siberia moment Ha   
> I am going to make up for it with a second chapter either today or tomorrow

It’s snowing in Siberia. 

Little snowflakes, like crumbles of a warm, home-made loaf of bread fall down on the tablecloth of ice, dancing through the sleet-gray air. Little ballerinas of ice, in their individual little tutus, coming from the heavens to land graceful and meek on his bruised face, kissing his closed lids, tangling in the lengthy slopes of his lashes. 

Tony thinks, maybe, looking at the blurry half-formed images of white-cast angel feathers is not the worst thing he can see before he goes. The suit is a heavy dead weight around him, his very own titanium sarcophagus. He couldn’t move in it if he tried, and the ice has climbed into the joints, and stuck them, immobile. All he can do is lay there and look at the snowflakes, and hope Ross’ team gets there in time. Or hope they don’t. He hasn’t made his mind up just yet, which outcome he hopes for. 

It’s enough. There’s a small, desperate part of him, tired and alone, and so fucking afraid, and that part says “Enough.” 

Truthfully, it’s been enough for a long time. Enough came and went. Enough was Ultron. Enough was the Mandarin. Enough was Obadiah. Enough was Afghanistan. Enough was the first overdose, was the car crash, was Howard’s fist in his face. Enough was everything but him. 

He wondered why was it, horrible things just kept happening to him, over and over again, and he was supposed to just deal with it, just lay there and take it like it didn’t fucking hurt, like he wasn’t so fucking broken already, like he hadn’t given everything up, and when – when would it finally be okay for him to actually hurt for once. 

Because he couldn’t really suffer Howard’s abuse, his billion dollar bruises were the price of privilege, and he couldn’t really mourn Maria, because she’d taken Howard with her, and there was a future of bright possibilities, and he couldn’t live through Afghanistan, because Pepper and Obie said he could rest, but they hadn’t meant it. Okay, well. Maybe Obie had. But Obie had tried to kill him, and it’s not like Tony had time to deal with that either, because then he was dying, and he wanted it, welcomed it, and instead there’s Nick Fury, waltzing in like he hadn’t spent the last thirty years denying Howard’s abuse and guilting Tony for his tears, and suddenly, again, he’s an ungrateful ten year old facing a well-meaning adult who tells him to grow-up, and then there’s the Avengers, there’s Captain America threatening to deck him, there’s a hole opening in the sky, there’s an army, there’s his own death looking down at him, and her eyes are full of stars. 

Pepper hadn’t liked it, that this death had become his new mistress, her presence in their bed too upsetting, Tony waking up screaming and afraid too much. Pepper knew Tony was broken, had always known it, and still expected better of him. But Tony was never going to get better. There was no better. Not even Ultron could fix it, because whenever Tony tried to fix things, they just ended up like him – flawed, hungry, broken. 

And if he was never allowed to be upset about any of that… well. Silly of him to assume he’d be allowed his anger when he found out that –   
It’s not about Barnes being the killer. Not really. Not rationally. It’s about Steve. And the lie. That ugly, ugly, ugly lie. It’s about Auntie Peggy, and the funeral he missed out of respect for Steve’s feelings, and the knowledge that she probably knew too. That Fury definitely did. But they hadn’t let him mourn then. And now they were gone. And he couldn’t be angry now. Because he should have gotten over it, right? Because Bucky Barnes was Captain America’s best friend. 

And now the suit was dead around him, and freezing too, and the snowflakes looked like little ballerinas, and he didn’t have a mother, and he didn’t have a heart, and he wondered if he was finally allowed to be upset now, that his friend had killed him. It was enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 short chapters, it's like u got 1 big one whoo

Tony comes to to the soft whirring of hospital equipment which shouldn’t really be familiar, but it is anyway. There’s a steady beep beside him, beep-beep-beep. 

He blinks bleary eyes open. His lids feel like they weigh a ton, like all the snow that fell on him has piled up in his lashes, and now he can’t even open his eyes. It takes more effort than he can manage to put things into focus. There’s a red light somewhere to the upper left. A smoke detector, probably. It blinks at regular intervals. He likes it, so he chooses it as a focal point. He likes lights. Shiny things that flash. There’s a comfort to the regularity. 

A turn signal, a laser pointer, the light on an old-fashioned answering machine, a phone flashlight, even the goddamn arc reactor. 

The arc reactor. 

The weight in his chest, like a ton of bricks. A pain so familiar, he hadn’t even noticed it, but now it becomes central to his entire being. Again. 

He can’t move enough to look down, but he knows if he does, he will see the familiar blue glow. Maybe he should fuck about with the design again. How funny would it be if he could make the center piece into a little love-heart? Rhodey would probably get a kick out of that. 

Rhodey can’t kick anything anymore. 

And Bucky Bear killed his mom. And Captain America lied to him. 

The smoke detector blinks again, and Tony closes his eyes. He’s still fuzzy, and if he doesn’t let anyone know he’s awake, maybe he can spend a little longer putting off the inevitability of having to exist in a world where all these things are true, and he is a failure. He’s a man not even worth the truth of his father’s murder. 

A movement to the side catches his eye, breaks his focus on the blinking red light. 

He wonders if maybe Vision is there, but it’s not very likely. Or Pepper? It could be Pepper, maybe she’s sat there, doing work on her tablet. He’s so, so tired, and everything hurts in a way the morphine can’t really fix, because it’s a pain that goes beyond it. He hurts all the way down into his bones, in those secret, shameful little parts of himself where he’s always known it would happen one day, because Howard Stark, his dad, the smarted man in the world, said it would: 

When we find him, one day, Captain America will see you, and he will know what I know: you are a failure, and you aren’t worth being my son. 

He tries to look back towards the corner with the movement. Someome has been sitting down, that stands up. It’s nice, Tony thinks, to have someone sit in his hospital room, waiting. Vision, or Pepper, or Happy. It’s nice. They’re nice. 

He wants to buy Pepper another big bunny. Buy Happy a new car. Buy Vision a hundred cook books and a turbo-blender. 

The blurry man approaches him. He says something, but his voice is low and far away. That’s how Tony knows they gave him the really good stuff. He’s been in hospitals enough to know. The good stuff means he’s not even surprised, not even hurt. He just smiles, like he’s been taught, lets is spill on his face like just another bruise, “Hey, daddy.” 

Stark’s eyes flutter closed, and the dopey grin fades from his face as he goes back under. 

Thaddeus sighs to himself. Stark seemed completely out of it, which given the fight, the frostbite, and the surgery was to be expected. He’d be asleep for a very long time, according to the attending. Extremis had to work its way through him, or something, and the arc reactor had to… do whatever it did, and such. 

It was a good thing they’d recovered the videotapes, the camera records, and Zemo’s own incredibly helpful testimony, though really, all they’d needed was Rogers’ blood splattered shield, and the gaping mess of Stark’s chest to put two and two together. 

It was a mess. Rogers and Barnes were missing. Stark was in a state and a half. And the media vultures were out for blood, but for now they were keeping quiet. It wasn’t like him not to have a statement ready, but this was on Stark. They’d say whatever he wanted. 

No one wanted to announce to the world that Captain America is a war criminal, whose best friend is a brainwashed Nazi. No one wanted Tony Stark to be the victim of an attempted murder. 

He went back to the armchair and opened his tablet again. Betty smiled at him from the background, her face half-obscured by the little colorful app icons.


End file.
